


Forest and Sky

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme, Polygamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Throne is never empty.  The King requires no Hand to fill it in his absence, only his two Queens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forest and Sky

 

King Aegon VI Targaryen does not sit the Iron Throne with ease.  Birthright though it may be, he has seasalt in his veins now, wanderlust in every muscle, the yearning to explore and to discover forever shining in lilac eyes.  Since taking the capital (and he still loves that part, still loves the conquest), he has spent precious little time within its walls, preferring to head East for trade negotiations or South to check on the rebuilding of Dorne.    
  
But his seat is never empty.  He requires no Hand to fill it in his absence, only his two Queens.  
  
Queen Sansa of House Stark and Queen Myrcella of House Baratheon sit together on the hulking throne, which provides more than enough room for a pair of lissome young women.  Eyes of blue and green smile upon the petitioners, gentle voices speak in tandem- agreeing, almost always agreeing.  They are a monolith, strong and sure and steady, anchoring their wayward husband’s reign firmly in place.  
  
Although they’ve both become Targaryens through this union, the women wear their house colors with pride. Sansa in white-and-grey raiment, with only a simple circlet of silver and pearl upon her russet hair.   Myrcella in black damask embroidered with golden brocade, a crown of antlers atop her fair curls- she had the crown fashioned after a recent hunt.  Myrcella loves to hunt, and although she never cared for the sport, Sansa will join her from time to time.  For she likes to watch her sister-wife with a bow in her hand, green eyes focused and flashing and alive.  The hunt awakens something in Myrcella, and Sansa understands the need, the hunger.  
  
Baratheon and Stark sit side by side, black and white and silver and gold.  The  _other_ colors are never worn, never mentioned- the girls will occasionally don Targaryen red as a courtesy to their husband, but they take care to pair it only with onyx or ebony; Myrcella will even wear a dark veil over her bright hair.  Red and gold have no place together in this room, not anymore.  
  
Only under dark of night, with only a gentle spill of moonlight and a flickering candle, do the Lannister colors reappear. The King never leaves his throne empty...nor his bed.  His wives wrap each other in slim arms- Sansa’s white and soft, Myrcella’s sinewy and sun-bronzed.  And their hair tumbles together on the pillows- curls of red and curls of gold.    
  
When Myrcella kissed her for the first time, Sansa avoided her eyes, for she feared that she would see another woman peering out at her through emerald pupils.  But Myrcella is not so much like her mother after all; her hair is burnished gold rather than spun, nearly dark enough to resemble bronze. Her skin is not milky-white and silky-soft, but tight and tan from years under the Dornish sun.  And of course, there is the scarring, but Sansa has no care for that.  “It makes you fiercer, like a warrior,” she’d told Myrcella once, and the other girl had beamed before climbing atop her, pinning Sansa’s long limbs to the mattress and kissing her quiet.  
  
But the greatest difference is in the eyes.  It’s true, Myrcella’s eyes are Lannister-green, but they don’t gleam cold like emerald, but instead shine warm and wild, like the leaves in the forest that she loves so dearly.  Only once or twice have her eyes turned to stone- when Aegon brought word of Tommen’s death, for one.  And then there was that cold, crisp day on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, when Ser Jaime Lannister deposited his sister’s body at the new king’s feet, purple finger-marks lashed across her ivory neck.  Aegon had planned to send Ser Jaime to the Wall, but Myrcella shook her head, golden hair swishing against her veil of Baratheon black, and called for an executioner instead.   Blood of crimson spilled into the gold of Jaime’s hair, and Myrcella’s eyes became jewels as she smiled.  
  
Sansa understands viciousness and bloodlust more than she should; she can still feel the crack of bones and sinew beneath her hand when she held the knife that slew Ramsay Bolton.  She remembers the easy slide of a blade into Petyr Baelish’s intestines, the tear of thin skin when Valyrian steel conquered Lady Stoneheart.  Small hands, girls’ hands, the damage done.    
  
But there is only gentleness in these hands now, as the Queens stroke each others’ hair, lips on lips.  Sansa draws her tongue over the skin of Myrcella’s neck as she reaches down, skating her palm over the other woman’s stomach.  It is flat now, but they’d made thorough use of Aegon when he last shared this bed with them...Sansa herself had missed her last course, and the idea that she and Myrcella might grow large with child together, that they might sit the Iron Throne with swelling bellies, offering new lives to replace the ones they’d taken-  
  
Eyes of blue sky meet eyes of green forest, and the sister Queens of the Seven Kingdoms smile in perfect harmony.

  



End file.
